


Ashes to Ashes

by Davechicken



Series: The Emperor and his Knight [4]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Darkfic, M/M, Violence porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6477817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story behind those ashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Graphic depictions of violence being enjoyed, as well as 'those' infamous ashes.

Kylo Ren has killed many people. To start off with, it was the Jedi. Then it was whoever the Supreme Leader wanted. Then (sometimes) people he thought were in the way (or too annoying). The first deaths had left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. A strange love-hate feeling. Love, because he’d triumphed. He’d been superior. He’d _won_. Hate, because he’d felt the dimmening of the light around him when they moved from _alive_ to **dead**. There had been - in the beginning - a sense of uproar within himself, a sense of… unease? But over time it had faded, and only the thrum of _success_ remained in his veins.

None of that compares to how he feels, now. 

Now he kills for his Emperor. Now he kills for **loyalty, obedience, fealty, love**.

When he takes a life, it’s because Emperor Dameron wills it. And his Emperor is _wise_ like no other could be, and **strong** like no one before, or after. He is _glorious_ and Kylo’s heart thuds faster when he feels a ribcage _give_ under the pressure from his plasma blade. The sound of burning flesh, the acrid stench of cauterised cloth and panic-piss that evacuates at about the same time as life does.

The first time he did it, he’d kept his blade inside the husk for longer than he needed. The weight of the corpse against his cross-guard, the slump of limbs like a cut-string puppet. The _Supreme Leader_. Dead, on his shaft. He’d thrown the head to his Emperor, and proclaimed him Lord of all.

The second time, he’d got the same, giddy thrill. A senior General with an axe to grind, trying to stage his own coup. Kylo wouldn’t let anyone unseat _his_ Emperor, and he’d dispatched them with glee. 

And then, because it was now something of a custom, like a she-cat hunting for her pride… he brought the corpse home and threw it down at Poe’s feet. He’d knelt, then, and awaited the praise for his loyalty, and he had been repaid in kind. A hundredfold. His Emperor was _nothing_ if not giving.

He did not bring every kill home, only the ones of significant import. He laid their glassy-eyed, wind-bloated meatbags at the base of his throne, below the dais, and promised his saber-hand over and over. These kills made him happy, because they made Poe happy. They made their position safer, and thus their relationship, too. It was a direct cause:effect system, and endless loop of bloody murder and death to keep their lives ahead of the game. 

Poe would let him kneel in front of him, then, and use his mouth. Let his Knight sink below his robes and drink deeply of him. He’d write edicts with his tongue, swallow his Lord and Master’s commands until his jaw ached and his belly was warm and full.

Even so, Kylo Ren did not expect what he comes in to find, now.

His Emperor has summonsed him, and he of course came at once. Stood the required distance away, as was decorous and polite. Head lightly bowed, breathing slow and even, eyes averted until given permission to approach and engage. Most of these rules are unspoken. Many are his own invention, his own inner way of proving himself. Kylo has never taken to rigid command structures well, never been fond of constraint or control, but he is when it’s Poe. He takes to these ritual behaviours, knowing that in honouring them, in accepting the leash around his neck, that he shows Poe how important he is. Because Poe - who has barely needed to ask for his submission - has it entirely. 

And Kylo is all too willing to surrender even his dignity for his beloved. 

This time, though, there is a new addition to the room. A tall, hip-high podium with a basin atop it. Something like a font, but instead of water it is filled with a curious, grey, dusty substance. Kylo senses it, but doesn’t look to see what it is until he’s been acknowledged and told to advance.

“Don’t you like your new gift, my precious one?”  


Kylo’s head moves, and he stares through his helmet at his Master. “It is very elegant, my Lord. May I ask…?”

“Look at it.”  


Poe’s words brook no argument, so he rises. He walks over to it, and runs his gloved fingers over the edge.

“It’s for you to keep your helmet on, when I want your mouth,” he’s told. “And there is one in our chambers, too.”  


“I am honoured, my Lord.”  


“You haven’t asked the _real question.”_ Poe sounds affronted.  


“…what… is it made from?”  


“You get there in the end.”   


Kylo reaches out a hand, pushing through the soft material. It is weirdly reminiscent, but he can’t tell what _of_. He lets it slip and slide through the spaces between his fingers, and looks up.

“Everyone you threw at my feet,” his Emperor tells him.  


Oh. _Oh_. This is the ashes of all those deaths, done by his hand, done for his Emperor. He’d kept them. In a way. He’d kept the war trophies Kylo had hurled at his feet, and he’d turned them into something poetic and beautiful.

“ _My Lord_ ,” he breathes, awe-struck.  


“Now. What did I say the podium was for?”  


Kylo unclicks his mask at once. The front place is barely open before he’s clawing it away from his face, and slamming it into the soft remains. He strides the short distance, or - rather - one moment is in one location, the next he is in another. He drops to his knees before his Master, and pushes his face immediately into his crotch.

“Good, my pet. Good.”  


Kylo’s salivating by the first run of fingers through his hair.

“You may continue,” he’s told.  


And he does. Oh, he does. 


End file.
